


Yield

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: Witcher Fanfics [12]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Double Penetration, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Imprisonment, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, Young Dettlaff, Young Geralt, young Regis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-04-29 15:33:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14475723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: “You’re a higher vampire,” said Geralt numbly. “A real one.” A true higher vampire. The sort of vampires that could slaughter entire villages with ease, within a single night. The kind of vampire Vesemir had told him he was never to approach, as it would mean certain death even for the most capable of witcher.Geralt, being six years onto the path, wasn’t even close to being a moderately capable witcher.Regis captures Geralt and takes him back to his camp. Things don't go as planned for anyone involved.





	Yield

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this fic features younger versions of Geralt, Regis, and Dettlaff! Try not to think too hard about where this fits into the canon timeline, because you'll just hurt yourself. I take liberty with dates to make this work. Hope you enjoy it!

For a man like Geralt, who barely had two orens to rub together on a good day, the five hundred oren contract he spotted pinned to a notice board was an unprecedented windfall. Or had the potential to be one, in any case. He only skimmed the contract before ripping it off the board and shoving it into the depths of an empty pouch. Not out of any desire to forgo preparation; he would read it through carefully later and prepare accordingly, but the contract was fresh and he didn’t want anyone else getting the idea to pursue it. He’d had an older witcher take a job right out from under his nose in the past. Only once, but when you lived on the brink of starvation and dehydration, you tended to get antsy about these things.

The man who had put out the contact turned out to be a noble. Not entirely surprisingly, given the size of the reward, though Geralt did stand in their lavish mansion courtyard for several minutes in wonder-struck awe. While he had seen such buildings during prior travels, he had never been permitted to step onto the property of one. Going from cobblestone streets covered in filth and shit to fresh, springy grass surrounded by carefully maintained flowerbeds was a jarring transition. It was like stepping into an entirely different world.

He walked slowly up the path leading to the mansion, escorted by two burly men that offered little in the way of conversation. Just like the outside, the interior of the mansion was vast and beautiful. It exceeded Geralt's expectations - not that he'd had many, having never before stepped foot inside a mansion. He found the huge glass chandelier attached to the ceiling of the hall a curiosity and watched it sway and glimmer as a gentle breeze squeezed in through the door, and as they strode down a long hallway, he had to be outright pulled away from the shiny trinkets being displayed on marble pedestals.

People actually lived like this? Geralt couldn’t imagine it. He’d been a poor vagabond his entire life.

The owner of the place came out to greet him. Felipe van De Wyngard, in his stunning purple gown with gold trimming, made Geralt very conscious of the fact he’d entered the place in filthy, threadbare clothes that still bore the blood of his last contact. Felipe evidently noticed the filthy part, as he wrinkled his nose at Geralt before gesturing Geralt into a nearby room.

“I’m glad you’re here, witcher,” said Felipe, though he didn’t look or sound particularly glad. “You’re a little younger than I was expecting, though. How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight,” said Geralt, which was a brazen lie. He always embellished a little if contractors indicated they thought him too young and inexperienced for the job. Only by a few years, mind you; he wouldn’t go so far as to give himself an additional decade. “The mutations make me look younger,” he added, which wasn’t entirely untrue. Witcher’s did age exceptionally slow after reaching maturity.

Felipe appeared to buy the lie. “Oh, I see. I gather that’s why your hair’s white as well.”

Geralt nodded.

“Curious. Well, as long as you can do the job, I don’t care what aesthetical pitfalls your mutations have.” Felipe came to a stop before a bed, upon which was an ashen-faced woman with bright blonde hair that spilled across the pillows. A beautiful woman, though Geralt made an effort not to stare too noticeably. He doubted his host would appreciate it, given that this woman was probably the daughter he had mentioned in his notice.

“My daughter,” said Felipe. “I believe she was attacked by a vampire.”

The bandages on her neck certainly suggested that. He listened closely for thud of her heart and found it beating sluggishly. She was barely clinging onto life.

“When did this happen?” asked Geralt, leaning down to move the bandages aside so he could view the bite mark. It didn’t bear any resemblance to the vampire bites Geralt had seen on his travels. Much too neat and precise. If this was the work of a vampire, it must have been of the higher variety. A katakan, most likely, as even the more intelligent alps and bruxa weren't usually this neat. Geralt had never encountered a katakan before and nor had he sought one; they were suggested to be among the hardest of monsters to dispatch.

“Two days ago,” said Felipe, casting his gaze away from his daughter’s motionless body. “She hasn’t awoken since then. Simply lies there.”

Geralt didn’t particularly want to deal with the fallout of informing the man his daughter wasn’t likely to survive the week, so he didn’t. It wasn’t his business, anyway. He was here as a hired sword, not a medic.

“Where was she attacked?” he asked.

“A crypt on the outskirts of town,” said Felipe, his voice tremoring. Geralt decided that was his cue to prise his contractor away from his daughter, which he achieved by making pointed strides toward the exit. “She went there to deliver flowers to her mother’s grave,” the man explained on their way out the room. He was noticeably less distressed once in the hallway. “I sent someone to look around yesterday morning, but they have yet to return. I fear the vampire has attacked them as well.”

Geralt had absolutely no doubt about that. “Should I find them, I will return the body to you. I imagine their family would like to bury it.”

“Yes, thank you.” Felipe nodded his gratitude. “You’re very… polite for a witcher, you know? Nothing like the stories people tell.”

“The stories people tell about witchers are usually firmly in the category of fiction.” Geralt folded his arms, looking up at the man. “If I don’t return from my venture, it would be best to assume I too have been felled by the vampire.”

“Is that likely?” asked Felipe.

“It seems to be a higher vampire, so yes. If the job is to perilous for me, I won’t be able to perform the job at all.” He shrugged. “But I’ll examine the scene, first.” 

“I do not anticipate another witcher coming here anytime soon, and I suspect the beast will have moved on by the time one does,” said Felipe, his voice bordering on agitated. “You cannot return to me empty handed.”

“Might not have a-“

“What if I increase the pay?”

More coin wouldn’t make Geralt any less perishable, he wanted to say, but he _did_ like the sound of more coin. He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Alright. By how much?”

“Bring me the vampires head, and I’ll double it,” said Felipe.

One thousand orens. If the five hundred was an unprecedented windfall, this was… well, having that much money was simply inconceivable, even while it was being offered to him. Geralt blinked at the man in shock. He wouldn’t even know what to do with one thousand orens, but he certainly wasn’t opposed to owning that bounty of coin.

“One thousand?” he said quietly.

“One thousand,” Felipe parroted.

Geralt left the premises with that reward rattling around his head. With that much coin, he wouldn’t need to hunt again for months, perhaps even a year, provided he was frugal. All he had to do was kill one higher vampire. Sure, they had quite the reputation, but with enough planning, any monster could be felled by his sword. If it could bleed, it could die, and Geralt had seen first hand how easily vampires could be made to bleed. Well, lesser vampires, but how different to their higher brethren could they be?

Geralt arrived to a vacant graveyard. It looked like the peasants had attempted to drive off the vampire using their own methods. Namely, garlic necklaces hung on tombstones and cloves scattered across the dirt. Whoever was selling the vampire necklaces must have been making an absolute killing in town. Too bad garlic repelling vampires had absolutely no basis in reality.

He listened intently to his surroundings as he approached the crypt. The graveyard may have looked empty, but it always paid to be cautious. With his hand wound tight around the hilt of his silver sword, ready to strike should the vampire jump out at him, Geralt descended the crypt steps. His pupils expanded to accommodate the stifling darkness. On the last step, even his witcher eyes weren’t enough for him to see the further stretches of his surroundings and he swallowed one of the oily tasting Cats he had attached to his potions belt.

There were patches of drying blood scattered across the cement. They provided an easy enough trail to follow, particularly when they transitioned into one long drag mark.  This vampire had been impeccably messy with its last meal, which was ideal for Geralt, who hadn’t particularly wanted to go creeping around a crypt in search of the vampire. There was less of a chance it would catch him unawares this way.

It turned out he’d really had nothing to worry about, because when he came upon the vampire, not only were they sleeping, but they weren’t even in a sarcophagus. They were just… sprawled out on a lid, their arm dangling over the side, their maw wide open as they snorted. It was not the scene Geralt had expected to come upon and it was amusing enough that he had to bite his tongue to stifle a guffaw.

Before entering the slumbering vampires room, Geralt coated his blade in vampire oil and made sure his Moon Dust bombs and Swallow vials were in easy reach. He drank one thunderbolt to ensure his first hit would be a grievous one and one Black Blood to dissuade the vampire from biting him. He was getting close to toxicity. If he ended up in dire straits, he’d probably only be able to consume one Swallow before having to stop.

The vampire didn’t stir as he approached. He appeared to be out cold.

With his narrow face and curly black hair, he didn’t look like any vampire Geralt had ever seen before. In fact, if not for the unnaturally pale skin and maw of sharp teeth, he would have been indistinguishable from a human. He even wore human clothes, and while Geralt had heard of Katakan’s wearing human clothing in an effort to integrate into human society, he’d never seen it for himself. They weren’t unsightly clothes, either. His long black cloak and red undershirt looked to be the sort of ensemble nobles would pay hundreds of orens for. 

Geralt readied a sword and bomb. It was too bad the cloak likely wouldn’t survive their encounter. He would have quite liked to wear it.

He lobbed the bomb at the slumbering vampire and while the dust was still raining down around them, thrust his sword deep into its gut, until the tip of it met cement. The vampire, strangely, was slow to react. It raised its head off the sarcophagus lid to watch the sword tear through its gut, made a couple of soft, choking sounds and spat mouthfuls of blood, and then – disappeared. Simply disappeared. Geralt consequently went sprawling into the sarcophagus and smacked his face into the brick.

He was quickly informed of just where the vampire had gone when angry hissing erupted from behind him. He turned, and he gathered by the way the vampire was spitting and snarling and gesticulating that it was swearing at him in the vampiric language. He could only imagine the sort of filth that was being flung at him. Geralt was almost grateful he didn’t understand.

“A filthy beast in more ways than one,” he said wryly.

“You little _prick_ ,” said the vampire, which was about what Geralt had expected to hear. It staggered slightly as it moved to close the space between them. “Just when I thought humans couldn’t get any more irritating.”

He raised his sword in preparation for another strike, only to be halted by the realization the wound he had inflicted was healing. Slowly, but it was definitely healing, the flesh knitting itself back together before his very eyes. He’d never heard of Katakan’s being able to do that. In fact, the only vampires he had heard to have that ability were…

“You’re a higher vampire,” said Geralt numbly. “A real one.” A _true_ higher vampire. The sort of vampires that could slaughter entire villages with ease, within a single night. The kind of vampire Vesemir had told him he was never to approach, as it would mean certain death even for the most capable of witcher.

Geralt, being six years onto the path, wasn’t even close to being a _moderately_ capable witcher.

The vampire arched its eyebrows. “You approached me… oh ho, you approached me without being aware of that, didn’t you? Oh dear, you _are_ in trouble.”

Geralt glanced at the exit. If he fled now, there was a slight chance he would reach it before being eviscerated.

“Well then, this is going to be quite the lesson in-“

Geralt barreled for the exit before the vampire could finish speaking, running as fast as he legs could carry him, pounding over concrete and grating and leaping for the stairs. He instead leapt right into the vampire’s arms, who had appeared before him as though through teleportation.

“You are _very_ rude, you know,” said the vampire as it fisted a hand around Geralt’s neck, slamming him into the ground and knocking the breath out of him. His head jarred against the cement. “Didn’t anyone teach you manners?”

“Wasn’t part of witcher school curriculum,” he breathed, attempting to swing his sword at the vampire’s arm, to lop it off and free himself. The vampire merely slapped it away and sent it skidding across the ground.

“You’re a witcher? I should have known.” The vampire straddled him, knees pinning Geralt’s arms flat to the floor. Its hand was still tight around Geralt’s neck, squeezing his windpipe. Its other hand divested him of anything else he could use to escape. “Is there anyone in particular I should be sending your severed head to, witcher? A teacher perhaps?”

“F-fuck you.”

“This is usually the part where people start begging, but generally not for _that_. Little too early, don’t you think? We haven’t even introduced ourselves.”

At the implication that he wished to fuck the vampire, Geralt flushed slightly, and the vampire visibly delighted in it.

“A shy witcher! Who knew you had the capacity to feel such things. Well, why don’t I get the ball rolling, little wolf.” The hand squeezed some more and Geralt had to take gasping breaths not to pass out. “My name is Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy. And you?”

“That name is absurd,” Geralt spat.

The vampire – Regis – appeared genuinely insulted by Geralt’s comment. “I’ll have you know my name was highly liked among my peers. Many wished they’d been the one to choose it.”

“You _chose_ it? Didn’t think you could get more pitiful.”

“Such arrogance.” Regis pressed a thumb down hard on his windpipe and Geralt wheezed. His chest burned with the need to breathe. “I know just how to deal with that.”

Geralt would have replied, but there was too little air in his lungs to do so. He was limited to a glower.

“What is it you humans say on the battlefield…” The pressure on Geralt's throat eased slightly as Regis’ nails bit into his skin, drawing thin rivulets of blood that quickly coated the inside of Geralt's vest collar. His hair became mattered with it, sticking to the nape of his neck. “Ah, yes! First blood to me, and I suspect all subsequent bloods will be mine, too.”

“I stabbed you,” Geralt wheezed. “First blood wh- was mine.”

Regis actually looked momentarily embarrassed by his fumble, then leaned down within inches of Geralt’s wound. “The wound healed, so technically-“ A pause. “…You poisoned your blood.”

“You’re welcome to drink it regardless,” Geralt bit out with difficulty.

The vampire bared its teeth at him. They had grown in length. “That would be a waste of drink. No. I’ll wait.” It released his neck, enabling Geralt to draw in several harsh, gasping breaths. It cupped his chin in its hand instead. “Whatever shall we do in the meantime, little wolf? Shall I remove some extremities? Your tongue, perhaps? That would be a sure way to stop it wagging.”

In response to that particular threat, Geralt clenched his teeth.

“No?” said Regis, chuckling. “Then I suppose we shall simply spend this time getting better acquainted.”

Without any further preamble (something which Geralt was grateful for), the vampire dropped its face to Geralt’s neck, the tip of its hooked nose burrowing beneath Geralt’s jaw. A startlingly cool wetness glided over Geralt’s bobbing adams apple. It took him a moment to register that he was being licked, that sweat was being lifted off his skin by a long black tongue that left a chill wherever it went, and he jerked in place – bewildered, flustered – when he realized.

The way it lapped at his jaw and neck, sliding into every crevice, feeling every rise of skin, betrayed just how badly it wanted to taste Geralt's blood. It pressed the flat of its tongue against his carotid artery and Geralt swallowed hard. His hands involuntarily curled into fists and he tried to focus on controlling his breathing, which had started to accelerate.

To his great dismay, the licking was actually pleasant. That didn’t seem the right word to ascribe to what the vampire was doing to him, and yet, he could think of no other. It felt pleasant. Pleasant enough that he couldn’t help the breathy moan the rolled off his tongue as the vampire licked beneath his jaw.

“Interesting sounds you’re making,” Regis rumbled against his skin. “Can’t tell if you hate or like this. Which is it, little wolf?”

Geralt tried to twist away despite knowing full well it was futile. Regis’ grip was unrelenting.

“That’s a no, I take it.”

The vampire removed its legs from his arms, which had begun to tingle from the cut off circulation. Geralt barely managed to squeeze some blood back into his stiff fingers before his wrists were caught in one hand and pinned to his torso. The vampire beamed down at him with white, jagged teeth that gleamed under the effects of the cat potion.

“That’s better,” murmured Regis, his words soft and sibilant, his gaze raking down Geralt’s writhing form. “You’re not what I expected of a witcher. Such a small, scrawny thing. I can smell the blood on you, the blood of monsters, but however do you manage to kill anything with those tiny arms?”

Geralt pursed his lips. It was hard to maintain or build muscle when you ate as inconsistently as he did. If not for his adeptness at killing wildlife, he would have died long ago from starvation. He wasn’t exactly skinny, though; his muscles were just of the lean variety.

“Not exactly a behemoth yourself,” he said pointedly.

“I’ve no need to be one,” Regi said, sniffing in a show of indignation. What delicate sensibilities he had. “It’s disappointing, is all,” Regis continued. He ran his free hand up into Geralt’s hair, scratching idly at his scalp, rather like one would a dog. “You’re not much of a feast like this. Just a _sip_ , and I was so looking forward to tasting something other than your average human swill for once. That noblewoman, oh, her quality of blood was wonderful, but it’s such a _rare_ treat.”

Geralt scowled at the vampire. “You’re despicable,” he spat.

“And you,” said Regis calmly. “Have almost finished purging the Black Blood from your system.”

Regis leaned down, and instead of biting Geralt, held his head still with a fist and licked a long, sloppy line up his cheek. Geralt shuddered.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he hissed. “That’s disgusting.”

“You didn’t seem to mind it a moment ago.” Regis grazed his teeth over the shell of Geralt’s ear, murmuring his next words directly into it. “Do you want to find out what it’s like to be ravaged by a vampire, little wolf? You humans contrive the most hideous of stories about us vampires and our sexual inclinations, but I’m not opposed to indulging such a pretty thing. Consider it a small mercy.”

Geralt bared his teeth at the beast in an effort to hide how very flustered the suggestion made him. The thought was more appealing than it should have been.

“Do I hear your _virtue_ fluttering?” Regis barked a laugh, his breath chilling Geralt’s skin. “I didn’t think you witcher’s had any to speak of!”

“Impressive that you know what virtues are, considering your stark lack of them,” said Geralt coolly. “Starting to think there’s more truth in those stories of lechery than you claim.”

Irritation flittered across Regis’ face, and Geralt was momentarily filled with satisfaction. If he was going to die, he wanted to do it annoying the ever-loving shit out of this vampire. It was a resolution that staved off the fear, if only momentarily.

“You’re much more verbose than any other human I’ve dealt with. There have been times I’ve even doubted humans had the capacity for intelligent thought.” Regis flattened Geralt’s head to the cement with a palm, displaying Geralt's bloodied neck. “Our conversations seem to primarily consist of screaming. But you’ll be doing that shortly, too, I imagine. They all do eventually, even after putting on a brave front.”

Geralt’s short, panicked breaths stirred the dust beside his face. He was going to die. Die here in a cold, dark crypt with dust in his lungs and witcher potions searing his veins, at the hands of an uppity vampire that would forget him in a few days, if not a few hours. This wasn’t the glorious, bloody death he had been envisioning ever since being told witchers never died in their beds. Even dying to a couple of Alghouls would have been preferable to this.

When he spoke, every word was a struggle. “I’ve doubted that myself, in your case.”

Regis guffawed. “Such a _mouth_ on you. You’re so very rude, and yet strangely endearing.” Its tongue returned to his skin, lapping away the blood that had gathered on his skin. The Black Blood must have finished its course. “You remind me of my birds,” the vampire murmured. “They twitter incessantly, but they’re such lovely creatures. Pretty and clever, just like you.”

“Not pretty,” Geralt ground out.

“On the other hand, _they_ know how to take a compliment.”

“Don’t want your compliments.”

Regis snorted and withdrew, licking remnants of red from his pale lips. “Are you opposing everything I say on principle?”

“No,” said Geralt dryly. Having Regis’ mouth away from his neck eased his panic a touch. 

“Ha! I see even the threat of death isn’t enough to silence your wit.” Instead of resuming his feast, Regis released Geralt’s head and worked on popping free the buttons on Geralt’s vest, unveiling the filthy shirt beneath. After wrinkling his nose at the sight, Regis twisted his fingers into the fabric and tore it off Geralt’s shoulder, murmuring something about it ‘not being much of a loss’ as he did. The fabric was worn enough that it didn’t take much for it to give.

Geralt would have lamented the ruination of his shirt, but there was really no point in getting upset when he was to die shortly. One didn’t need a shirt where he was going.

The cat potion had melted away. It was getting harder and harder to see Regis through the dark. Maybe that was for the best. He didn’t want a vampires grinning face to be the last thing he saw before he died.

“You are as tasty as I expected, little wolf.” The remains of his shirt were tossed aside. “Now, let’s see how long that wit endures.”

Even with his molars grinding together, it wasn’t enough to prevent him from crying out when the vampire snapped its teeth hard over his trapezius, sinking into the muscle with all the ease of a knife sliding through butter. Geralt was no stranger to pain, having failed to adequately protect himself numerous times during his first few years on the path, but he’d never been bitten quite like this, so savagely and deeply. Moving only served to make the agony worse, and while Geralt tried to keep still, it was hard to compel his body to comply with his demands when the vampire was grinding down with its jaw. It was such a relief when it finally released him that Geralt didn’t make any effort to stifle a sigh.

Geralt found himself unable to move as Regis lapped at the blood flowing in great streams from the bite he had inflicted. There must have been something in that bite, a poison, or a sedative, because Geralt was suddenly so weak and dizzy he couldn’t even raise his arms when his hands were freed. His vision blurred and he had only enough strength to lull his head to the side to watch the indistinct form of Regis drink from him. The vampire’s hands were wound tight around his arm and shoulder, nails biting into the skin, but he could barely feel it over the buzz throbbing through his skull.

What he could feel was Regis' swiping tongue, and it was starting to feel pleasant again. He almost preferred the pain to such indignity.

“Delicious,” Regis rumbled, parting from the wound with clear reluctance. “You’re a bounty of wonderful tastes. Alas, if I drink anymore, I fear you will die, and I don’t intend to reap you of your life just yet.”

“Huh?” was all the response Geralt managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m allowing you to live, little wolf.” Regis rose to sit upon his hips, his thin lips stretched into a broad smile. Regis’ talons dragged down his shoulder, across his pectorals, and came to rest at his sternum. “It would be a tragedy to deprive the Continent of your mouth. And those lovely eyes, and that hair…”

Geralt said nothing, eyelids drooping. The shard of red gleaming in the vampire’s eye compelled sleep and the sedative was making it impossible to resist. Thoughts were coming to him slow and haltingly, too fractured to be completely intelligible.

“Sleep well, little wolf.”

The red was mesmerizing. It pulled him toward slumber, squeezed the last wisps of consciousness from him.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

When Geralt awoke, it was to the sound of voices. They were distant, but the volume of them made them distinct.

“-Were you thinking, bringing a witcher here? You endanger the fledglings.”

“I’ll keep him so drained he won’t even be able to _think_ about harming them.”

“That is cruel, Emiel, even for you.”

“First you complain about him being dangerous, then you complain about how I intend to keep him in line. Just… come off it, Dettlaff. It’s none of your business.”

A sigh. “I will talk to the Elder about this. Goodbye, Regis.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t… don’t do that.”

Receding footsteps. Geralt struggled to heave himself onto his elbows, his head swimming.

“Dettlaff!” Hissing sounds. Curses in the Vampire Speech, probably.

With great difficulty, Geralt managed to drag his legs over the side of the bed he had been laid upon, his head and shoulder throbbing in tempo with his heart. The wound Regis had inflicted had turned tender over the course of his slumber. He expected a sizable bruise had been made by the vampire’s clenching jaw.

His legs wobbled like those of a newborn as he rose to his feet. He immediately dropped back to the mattress, unable to withstand his own weight. The sound of him thudding back into bed was enough to alert Regis, as the vampire came rushing into the room.

“Don’t try and get up,” said Regis, peering back out into the hallway before closing the door, perhaps hoping his companion – this ‘Dettlaff’ – had returned. “You will pass out. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“You don’t say,” said Geralt dryly, shuffling back until he was braced against the wall. He had barely the strength to sit upright. “When you said you were to let me live, I didn’t expect this.” Not that he had expected a lot of what Regis had done. The vampire was entirely too unpredictable.

“It’s not unheard of for vampires to keep lesser beings for drinking purposes.” Regis crossed the room in wide steps. “And you’re a tasty morsel, little wolf.”

“Thought you…” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “Liked my ‘wit’.”

“That too.”

Geralt chin dropped to his clavicle. It was an effort to keep it raised. “Why’m I so…”

“Blood loss, venom.”

Regis slid a knee onto the bed and steadied Geralt’s head with a hand, forcing him to make eye contact. The red had receded from his pupil. Geralt didn’t particularly want to go back to sleep, so he was grateful for that.

“I may have drawn from you a little while you were out. Couldn’t help myself. But a witcher cardiovascular system is more reliable than a humans, yes? So you should be fine.”

Geralt swallowed and wetted his lips. He only then noticed how very dry his mouth was, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“Humans need to drink,” he informed the vampire, just in case he wasn’t aware. Geralt had every intention of leaving this place, wherever this was, and he couldn’t do that if he passed from dehydration.

“I’m aware,” said the vampire. “If you want a drink, ask politely.”

Through great effort, Geralt managed to roll his eyes at Regis.

“…Mhm. Didn’t think that would work.” Regis vacated the bed and threw open a drawer on the other side of the room, sorting through the contents there. “I stowed a few of your things here, little wolf. Just some food, underwear, and water. Nothing you could use to inflict harm, of course, so don’t even think about it.”

“Wasn’t,” said Geralt honestly. The only thing he was thinking of right now was escape, preferably without needing to start a fight.

While Regis was otherwise occupied, he took the opportunity to survey his surroundings, taking in the modest size of the room and the worn furniture there within. There was a painting on the wall and a small, round carpet at the foot of the bed. A window on the far-left wall had been boarded up. Other than that, there wasn’t much else to see. It was your standard bedroom. Perhaps a little nicer than your average peasants, but not by much.

If he recovered enough strength, he might be able to prise the planks off the window and slip out. He would have to make it difficult for Regis to gauge the extent of his accelerated healing if he ever wanted enough energy to enact that plan, though. The next few days, or possibly weeks, were going to be full of little humiliating concessions.  

Regis returned from his search with a waterskin. Geralt didn’t have to feign the inability to drink by himself, fatigued as he was. He let Regis tip his head back and pour the water into his throat. The coolness of it felt nice on his tongue.

Discarding the waterskin, Regis tucked some of his hair behind his ears. “We need to get you dressed, little wolf. You must be cold like that.”

Geralt glanced down. He’d almost forgotten about his ruined shirt. With how threadbare it had been, its destruction hadn’t made much difference to his temperature. The blood loss made it impossible to be anything but cold, anyway.

After a moment of examining Geralt, Regis shuffled over to the head of the bed to reach into a chest there. The clothes he withdrew were clearly not just his own. Cloaks, and coats, and dress shirts, and stunning robes were piled up beside him, and many of them looked like they would be a little loose on Geralt, wiry as he was, but he wasn’t about to complain. Anything at all would be an improvement over what he was currently wearing.

“This, I think,” said Regis, settling upon a beautiful yellow robe with intricate floral patterns woven into the fabric. It was a beautiful piece of clothing, far nicer than anything else Geralt had ever worn. When Regis divested him of his vest and what little remained of his shirt and slid it onto him, he found it was thick too, lovely and warm. Regis tied a black sash around his waist to keep the robe closed.

“Perhaps I should have bathed you first,” murmured Regis, picking a piece of dirt out of his hair. It’d been a while since Geralt’d had the opportunity to wash it. “That will just have to wait until tomorrow. I have other matters which require my attention, anyway.” He carefully maneuvered Geralt to the headboard. “Let us hope the Elder approves of you, or I may have to, mmm… best not to get into that right now.”

Geralt hadn’t been aware there was a hierarchy among vampires. It had never been mentioned in his studies. The culture of vampires wasn’t the sort of thing one needed to know when the standard method of dealing with them was indiscriminate slaughter. The higher vampires might have been intelligent, but Geralt’s teachers had always emphasized that they weren’t to be trusted, that they would kill you if you demonstrated mercy. While he maintained his reservations about vampires, and for good reason, Geralt was starting to see they weren’t as uncomplicated as his teachers had suggested.

“I shall be back soon,” said Regis, petting the crown of his head.

“No need to hurry.”

“You’ll start to miss me, soon enough.” Regis withdrew his hand, grinning. “Humans crave company. It’s been observed.”

“I’ll manage,” said Geralt.

“Whatever you say, little wolf. Behave while I’m gone.”

Weak as Geralt was, Regis had absolutely nothing to worry about. Geralt hadn’t the strength to misbehave. He could yell and make a fuss, but his efforts would be more piteous than offensive.

The vampire left.

Geralt lay in bed for some time, trying to move, to work strength back into his limbs. Every movement, no matter how minute, was an effort, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get himself to further than the edge of the bed. If he stood and tried to walk, he knew he would collapse and hurt himself. He wasn’t sure he should be standing at all, anyway, with how much blood he’d lost. It would put strain on his already overwrought heart.

He spent some time examining the painting on the wall to distract himself from the boredom creeping in. It depicted a horse in a field, beautifully rendered despite the simple medium of charcoal. Whoever the artist was, they had considerable talent.

When the painting ceased to entertain him, he moved on to staring at the boarded-up window and considering the quality of nails keeping the planks of wood suspended. They looked to be good quality, unfortunately, and would require some force if Geralt wanted to wrench them out of the wood. He would have to find something thin and strong to slip between them to facilitate faster removal. The handle of a rake or broom, a candelabrum, a strong bit of metal. Anything would do.

Unfortunately, as he surveyed the room, he could see there was nothing he could make use of. Nothing he could dismantle for his purposes, either.

He slumped against the headboard for a short while, defeated. His brooding was disturbed by the door creaking open. He knew immediately by the heavy quality of the footsteps that it wasn’t Regis. When he turned his head, he was greeted by someone who aptly fit the description of ‘tall, dark and handsome’ standing in the doorway with a tray of food, staring openly at him. Geralt shifted uncomfortably under the intensity of their gaze.

“Witcher,” said the man, striding up to the side of the bed. He placed the tray on Geralt’s lap. “Eat.”

Geralt looked down at what he was being offered. Eggs, chicken, and a scattering of vegetables. Better than any other meal he’d had of late.

His gaze flicked back up to the vampire. “You’re Dettlaff.” He recognized the voice.

The vampire blinked, seeming surprised by this observation. “Yes. Did Emiel mention me?”

“No.” Geralt weakly selected a bit of carrot to try and eat. “You referred to me as dangerous.”

“Because you are,” said the vampire.  

“I don’t kill without reason.”

“That vampires have the capacity to kill is often reason enough for a witcher, regardless of whether or not they have inflicted harm upon humans.”

The level-headed way this vampire approached their conversation disorientated Geralt. He didn’t know how to reply, especially as there was truth in their words.

“You have been harmed by my… companion.” He said the words with some distaste. “For that, I apologize. Emiel lacks the maturity of most vampires.”

“Most?” said Geralt, chewing slowly on a bit of vegetable.

“The vast majority of us are civilized. We do not keep _humans_ as _pets_.” The vampire folded his hands behind his back. “What is your name, witcher?”

There seemed little point in keeping it to himself, so Geralt offered it with a shug. “Geralt of Rivia.”

“You hail from Rivia? I have been there. Beautiful place.”

“It’s just a title.”

The vampire fell momentarily silent, and Geralt could tell by his expression that he hadn’t understood. “I see,” he said slowly, canting his head at Geralt. “I am Dettlaff van der Eretein. You may call me Dettlaff.”

“…Right.” It was odd to be having such an amicable conversation with a vampire. He stared down at his food, not wishing to exacerbate the awkwardness by meeting Dettlaff’s eyes.

“Unfortunately,” continued Dettlaff. “I cannot free you.”

“Why?” asked Geralt.

Dettlaff visibly hesitated. “You are considered Regis’ property. Vampires are not like humans, in that regard. Stealing isn’t socially permissible under any circumstances.”

Geralt didn’t know what part he found more insulting: the idea he was anyone’s property, or the fact Dettlaff was brazenly lying about the social acceptability of theft among humans while referring to a sapient being as property. He was less level-headed than Geralt had initially thought.

“But abduction and enslavement is socially permissible,” said Geralt with a hideous twist of his lips. “Just like everyone else, you have the capacity to be savages.”

“We all have our cultures.” Dettlaff reached down and pressed a fork into his hand. “Eat with the utensils. There is dirt under your nails.”

“Witcher’s don’t get sick.”

“Nonetheless…” Dettlaff retreated. “Should the Elder permit you to stay, I will try to make your time here comfortable. Emiel will bore of you, eventually. His attention span is flittering.”

Not quite as helpful as ‘I’ll let you free’, but it was something. “With the life span of a vampire, that may be longer than I am willing to wait,” said Geralt.

“I refer to months, witcher, not years,” replied Dettlaff. “But should you escape before then, I don’t expect he will pursue. Much too much effort.”

“Good to know.” Geralt slowly worked his fork into a piece of chicken and brought it to his lips, chewing and swallowing it. With how rare wild chickens were, he hadn’t had any in a very long time. The meat was delicious. “Anything else I should know?” he asked, already shoveling another portion of chicken into his mouth.

“Yes.” Instead of delving into what he wanted to say, Dettlaff spent a few seconds scrutinizing Geralt. “…Have you ever been with someone?”

“What?”

“Are you sexually active?”

“I- uh…” Geralt dropped his head so it would be harder to see the colour in his ears. His mutations may have made him unnaturally pallid, but it hadn’t completely destroyed his facial capillaries, and he was sufficiently embarrassed enough for that to be evident.

“This is embarrassing for you,” the vampire observed, which just made it more embarrassing for Geralt. “I apologize.”

“Don’t see how that information is relevant to anything,” muttered Geralt, busying himself with his meal.

“Emiel wishes to bed you. I merely ask in the case that-“

“That’s not going to happen,” said Geralt, as calmly as possible. “So there’s no point in me telling you.” He wasn’t about to divulge to anyone his sex life, or lack thereof (he wasn’t exactly popular among woman, being a rather odd looking man). 

“Ah. Emiel may be projecting, then.”

“Projecting?”

“He claimed you smelt of arousal.” Dettlaff didn’t seem at all embarrassed by the fact he was talking about sex to a relative stranger. “I suggest you explicitly tell him you are not interested when next he attempts to court you. Emiel will not force you.”

Geralt was too busy being mortified by the fact Regis had been able to _smell_ his _arousal_ to respond to Dettlaff’s reassurances.

“Should you have any concerns,” continued Dettlaff. “I will be willing to answer them. I find you humans… pleasant, when not in large numbers.”

Geralt nodded dumbly, returning to his food. He forked some green beans into his mouth and finished what remained of his chicken, then let his fork clatter to the tray. He couldn’t get any more down. He was too tired and his drowsiness was making him nauseous.

“Are you finished?” asked Dettlaff.

“Yeah.” He sunk into his pillow. “What now? Do I just… wait here?”

“You could read,” suggested Dettlaff, drawing the half-finished meal out of Geralt’s lap. “There are books in chest.”

“Could you…?”

“Of course.”

Balancing the tray on one hand, Dettlaff pushed the chest lid open, reached inside, and withdrew two dog-eared books from deep within. He placed both of them on Geralt’s knees. Geralt turned them over to get a look at their covers and was surprised to find both of them were medical-based. ‘The wonderful story of the human body’ and ‘Traumatic Infectious Diseases’. Why Regis would read either of these was beyond Geralt.

“Strange books for a vampire,” murmured Geralt as he carefully peeled open the plain red cover of ‘The wonderful story of the human body’. He already had an in-depth understanding of the human body and its functions from his time at Kaer Morhen, but Vesemir had always said there was never a bad time to brush up on your training.

“I don’t quite understand Emiel’s interest myself,” admitted Dettlaff. “Nor do I have much of a desire to. What he does in his free time is his own business.”

“Sensible,” said Geralt, with some appreciation. Most would have desired to pry. Granted, Geralt was given the impression that Dettlaff didn’t much like Emiel and held little interest in his affairs beyond stopping his more chaotic decisions.

It occurred to him as he flicked through to a diagram of the cardiovascular system that Dettlaff might know something useful about Regis’ venom.

“Regis’ venom,” he started, glancing up at Dettlaff, who raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him. “What… what does it do, exactly? Any long term effects?”

“It simply causes muscle weakness and disorientation,” said Dettlaff. “There is no harm, so long as he does not administer too much. It causes organ degradation in large doses.”

That information made Geralt uneasy.

Seeing his discomfort, Dettlaff quickly tacked on a, “Your body likely processes it too fast for such a reaction. You’ve no need to be concerned.”

“Why would he need it?” said Geralt, shaking his mind free of organ degradation. He didn’t want to think about that. “Vampires can compel sleep.”

“That has limited success, and he does not always want those he drinks from to slumber through the event,” said Dettlaff simply, and it elicited a shiver from Geralt. “All higher vampires,” continued Dettlaff. “Have venom. Generally for hunting, but Emiel has found a new use for his.”

“Fangs, claws, venom - seems a little excessive.”

“In this world, perhaps.” Dettlaff glanced at the boarded-up window. “In the world we originate from, the creatures were quite different. Vampires were quite a bit different in that environment, as well.”

Geralt couldn’t help being curious. Vampires weren’t usually this forthcoming about life before the Conjunction of Spheres. “How were you different?” he asked.

“The intelligent beings of this world have influenced vampires,” said Dettlaff, speaking as though this should be obvious to Geralt. “Where we hail from, there was no sociological equivalent to humans, elves, or dwarfs. Vampires were the only higher intelligent species, and we did not wage wars, nor steal land. No one lorded above in an empire. Murder was rare. Religion, non-existent. Cruelty, uncommon, and deeply frowned upon.” Dettlaff lowered himself to the edge of Geralt’s bed, hands folded neatly in his lap. “Emiel was never particularly moral, but he did not always behave as he does now. This world has facilitated terrible cruelty in him.”

It was a lot of information to absorb, and it took Geralt a long moment to respond. Dettlaff didn’t hurry him. “Have you known him long?” he asked, finally.

“Since we were children.” Dettlaff’s mouth twitched, failing to form a smile before dropping back into a firm line. “We have what you humans would call a ‘sibling’ relationship.”

“Didn’t think that was a concept among vampires.”

“It isn’t, but humans are ignorant about a great many things concerning vampires and our culture.”

“You haven’t exactly been vocal about yourselves,” pointed out Geralt.

“Would you listen if we were?” asked Dettlaff. “People prefer fiction, just as they do with Witcher’s. I imagine there is little truth in the things they perpetuate about you.”

Geralt closed his mouth. He had a point.

“Is there anything else you wish to know, or shall I leave you to your reading?”

“No,” said Geralt, flicking idly through Regis’ book, more looking at diagrams than anything else. “But visit me again,” he added quickly, as Dettlaff stood to take his leave. “If I’m to be stuck here, I’d value some good company.”

“Perhaps.” Dettlaff took long strides toward the door, carrying Geralt’s tray. “It is a novel thing, to talk to a human that is not afraid.”

Geralt watched Dettlaff’s receding back until it was beyond his view, taking note of the knife attached to his belt. He then dragged his attention back to his book and the diagram of various human organs.

He wasn’t looking forward to Regis’ return. Fortunately, by the time Regis strode through the door, Geralt had been lulled to sleep by an excruciatingly dull description of the function of the liver.

* * *

The next several days proceeded uneventfully. Geralt spent most of them sleeping, weak from blood loss as he was, and what little time he spent awake was generally monopolized by Regis, who Geralt quickly discovered would go into lengthy spiels in response to the simplest of questions. Asking what Dettlaff’s venom did had lead him to telling Geralt all about the different hallucinogenic responses vampire venom could elicit, which had taken him roughly twenty minutes to do. As he was well aware Geralt was in no position to tell him to shut up, he was taking advantage, _liberally_. Geralt didn’t really mind. Listening to Regis ramble on was considerably more entertaining than either of the medical books Dettlaff had given him. While he still read them, they usually dragged him into slumber.

He had enough strength by his third day of captivity to rise from the bed. He couldn’t move far before exhaustion overwhelmed him, but at least now his heart didn’t thunder if he so much as lifted his head. He made it over to the window with the planks and pried at them with weak fingers. It was a futile effort. He ended up having to rest on the floor briefly before he could lug himself back into bed. That slight exertion left him faint and nauseous for the remainder of the day.

Regis didn’t drink from him like he had suggested he would to Dettlaff. He instead put something in Geralt’s food, which wasn’t much better in Geralt’s opinion. Whatever it was, it made him nauseous. He might’ve tried hiding the food had he more strength, but if he starved himself now he would only make his already poor health worse. He could take comfort in the fact Regis didn’t seem to want to drink from him while he was so weak, at least. He also, like Dettlaff had said he would, ceased attempting to court Geralt once Geralt told him he wasn’t interested (thought he did still compliment Geralt excessively).

It wasn’t until he could stand on his own for more than five minutes that Regis took him outside to bathe. Vampires, it turned out, didn’t bathe in the manner that humans did. There was no shame, no privacy. He was divested of his clothes and made to sit down on a stool next to Dettlaff and another vampire, both whom regarded him curiously. Geralt discreetly covered his privates.

“Humans get cold, Emiel,” pointed out Dettlaff.

“It’s warm today,” said Regis, retrieving a bucket from the ground and filling it with water from a nearby stream.

“Not terribly.”

“He’ll be fine.” Regis placed the bucket down in front of Geralt and started to divest his own clothes. Face warm, Geralt stared down at his knees.

“Here,” said Dettlaff, throwing a towel over Geralt’s shoulders and handing him a wash cloth and a thick block of soap.

Geralt mumbled his gratitude and dipped the wash cloth into the water, then lathered it up with the soap. The sooner he started washing, the sooner he could return to the bedroom. He felt rather awkward sitting among so many… well endowed men. He couldn’t help but glance at Dettlaff, who looked like everything Geralt wanted to be when he was able to eat well enough to develop some muscle mass. He wasn’t unmuscular himself, but he did lack in the bulk department.

Regis sat down next to him and looked over him with a disapproving frown. Taking the wash cloth from Geralt’s hand, he proceeded to scrub Geralt’s back and shoulders with an almost painful vigour. “No wonder you humans always smell,” Regis muttered as he worked, which Geralt glared at him for. He hadn’t thought he smelt that bad. Better than he usually did, even, considering he often didn’t bathe for months at a time while on the road.

He took the cloth back when it came time to clean the lower half of his body, though Regis regarded his efforts with disapproval. Those disapproving looks became more frequently when Geralt started watching Dettlaff wash himself. It was difficult to tear his gaze away from the man. He was starting to think he wouldn’t have minded quite as much had Dettlaff been the one to abduct him.

“Has Emiel been treating you well, witcher?” asked Dettlaff, folding his arms over his knees.

Geralt quickly looked away. “Would be nice if he would release me. Other than that, can’t complain.”

“I’m glad,” said Dettlaff. “I did worry.”

“I’m not in the habit of kicking wolves while they’re down, Dettlaff,” interjected Regis. “If I’d the intention to harm you, I would not have fought so hard for the right to keep you.” He huffed. “The Elder is still not pleased to have you in our camp. He believes you will bring trouble.”

“If past experience is anything to go by, it’s more likely to be trouble for me than you,” murmured Geralt.

“That’s the same thing, in our eyes,” said Dettlaff. “But I do not believe you will. This area is remote, cut off from human civilization. We will be undisturbed here, regardless of what the Elder says.”

“Exactly what I told him,” said Regis.

“The Elder can probably hear you, you know,” said the other vampire in their company, a man with sprawling blonde hair and the greenest eyes Geralt had ever seen. “I don’t think he’ll appreciate you discussing him behind his back.”

“I doubt it,” said Regis, but he looked uncomfortable and shortly there after fell silent. 

To confirm that their location was as remote as Dettlaff suggested, Geralt took a furtive glance around the area. Nothing stood out to him as familiar, and nor was he able to make out anything other than wildlife through the trees that surrounded them on all sides. Whoever had built the hut in which they now resided must have left long ago. Or been killed, which was just as likely. It wasn’t uncommon for people to build huts out in the wilderness, wishing to escape the hustle and bustle of daily life, and sometimes to avoid legal repercussions or conscription into the army. There weren’t any wars on, currently, but it was always only a matter of time. People – elves and humans in particular – seemed incapable of sheathing their swords for more than a few years at a time.

He quickly finished lathering up his skin and threw the cloth aside, washing away the suds with the bucket of water. He was shivering after. The water had been icy cold. Regis ended up having to help him back into the hut as he shivered hard enough to make his teeth chatter.

Regis left him to dry and dress on his own, and when Regis returned, it was with a hot meal of beef stew. He quietly placed it on Geralt’s lap and sat down on the end of the bed, watching him eat. He did that a lot – just watched Geralt, quietly and seemingly without purpose. Geralt had quickly gotten used to it, particularly because Dettlaff tended to do it as well. He gathered that it was just a vampire thing.

The stew tasted good. No surprise there, as all the food he was given tasted good. The vampires ate well despite the fact their meals consisted mostly of meat.

“How are you enjoying the food, little wolf?” asked Regis, watching him with a reserved sort of smile.

Geralt swallowed a mouthful of beef. “Fine.” He let his spoon clatter back to the bowl. “Do you intend to keep this up for long?”

“Keep what up? Feeding you? Because yes, I do. I’ve no intention of-“

“Not that,” interrupted Geralt. “Keeping me here.”

“Your blood is quite tasty, and I quite like you.”

“I don’t like you.”

This announcement didn’t appear to bother Regis. It wasn’t the first time Geralt had mentioned his distaste for the man.

“Given time, I’m sure you’ll take notice of my virtues.”

“Thought we established you didn’t have any virtues.”

“If we must play semantics, _positive qualities_.”

“You don’t have those either.”

Regis chuckled. “Droll as always. Would you be more comfortable if I brought you additional books? I notice you seem quite bored with the ones you currently have.”

“Why do you care about my comfort?” asked Geralt, swallowing another mouthful of stew. “I’m your prisoner.”

“I prefer the term ‘guest’.”

Geralt scoffed. “Very well, vampire, if that helps you sleep better at night.”

“Oh, it does,” said Regis, smiling. “So I thank you for indulging me. Now, would you like more books?”

“Yes.” The temptation to protest his imprisonment through refusing Regis’ offer wasn’t enough to persuade him to give up the opportunity for more entertainment. When Regis and Dettlaff weren’t around, he _needed_ something other than meditating to do, and it wouldn’t be long before he finished reading the medical books.

“Then I shall acquire some post-haste,” said Regis chipperly. “By which I mean, tomorrow. I will have to leave you alone for the day, I’m afraid, but Dettlaff will be around to keep you company.” And ensure he didn’t escape, probably. “He seems to have taken something of a liking to you.”

Geralt didn’t respond to the comment beyond a nod. He was glad to hear it. It was hard to tell what Dettlaff was feeling at any given time.

“Will you be purchasing more medical books while you’re at it?” he asked, spooning the last sloppy dregs of his meal into his mouth and pushing the tray aside.

“Curious about those, are you?” Regis leaned over the edge of the bed as he spoke, rifling through his chest. “I might do. The human body is quite a fascinating thing.”

“Is our anatomy much different from yours?”

“It functions differently, despite little visible difference.” Regis withdrew a comb from his chest. “We do not require oxygen, for example. We do not breathe for metabolic purposes. It makes you humans very fragile, but I do enjoy the novelty of it.”

“Do you need to eat? Drink?”

“Not to subsist, no,” said Regis. “But that wouldn’t be a very satisfying life at all, now would it?” He shuffled up the bed, slotting himself behind Geralt and applying the comb to his hair. When he pulled it down, he did so very gently.

Geralt had never had someone brush his hair for him before. It was the sort of simple intimacy he’d been deprived of in his childhood, having not had a mother or father. Much to his frustration, he didn’t want Regis to stop.

“We are compelled to eat, even if we do not require it to subsist,” continued Regis. “The animals and greenery of the continent aren’t ideal for our palate, however.” He sighed. “Foods here are considerably duller. We only taste a fraction of what you humans do. Ironically, I find using generous amounts of garlic make most meals tastier.”

“Not to my taste, personally. I don’t like garlic or onion.”

“I didn’t think a witcher would be the picky sort,” said Regis, lifting the comb to the top of his head and drawing it down, untangling knots as he went.

“Not picky. Still don’t favour onion and garlic.”

“You seem a little malnourished. How do you usually eat?”

“I’m sure you’ve already made an accurate assessment of my eating habits.”

Regis drew stray strands of hair out of Geralt’s face and tucked them behind his ears, then continued combing. “Did they neglect to teach you how to socialize at witcher school? Because when one asks you a question, you answer it, regardless of how obvious the answer might be. It’s only polite.”

“I’m being kept here against my will,” said Geralt, but his voice was mild. He’d begun to lean against Regis, entirely involuntarily. “I’m under no obligation to be polite.”

“Very well.” Regis shifted so his knees were tucked under Geralt’s arms. “Would you like a shave after I’ve finished with your hair? You’ve got a bit of stubble going.”

Geralt ran a thumb over the slope of his chin. It wasn’t very thick yet, but it soon would be. He didn’t particularly enjoy having a beard, even if it was unavoidable sometimes. It tended to get filthy and itchy in his line of work.

“I could do it myself,” he suggested, not all that eager to have his captor wield a blade against his throat.

“There are no mirrors here.”

“There’s a stream. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it that way.”

“As you wish, little wolf,” conceded Regis with a sigh. “Have you enough energy to perform the task?”

Ah, right. As much as he would have liked to sit outside in the grass to shave, he needed Regis to believe he was still weak, that he wasn’t developing a resistance to the sedative. His half-concocted plan of escape relied heavily upon that.

“Fine,” said Geralt, feigning a flop against Regis’ chest. “You do it.” It wouldn’t be that bad. He often couldn’t afford to use barbers, but the few times he had utilized them, the experience hadn’t been unpleasant. They were always quick and efficient, and as his life was a constant stream of fighting monsters for a pittance, their soft considerate touches were not unwelcome.

Regis was similarly soft and considerate when he shaved away the fine white hairs scattered across Geralt’s chin and jaw. He took exceptional care not to nick Geralt at any point. Geralt got the impression he often performed this service for his brethren.

When Regis left for the evening, Geralt went to sleep. He would need his energy for tomorrow. He had planning to do.

* * *

A plan came to him when Dettlaff arrived to keep watch over him the following day. It was quite simple: Dettlaff had a knife attached to his belt (for what reason, Geralt didn’t know, and nor did he care to ask), and Geralt would discreetly take it from him. He would hoard it until Dettlaff left and then use that knife to remove the nails from the wooden panels blocking his exit. He only needed remove two in order to slip out. Maybe three, if his shoulders proved too bulky.

Dettlaff didn’t often breach his personal space, but that was alright; given the right incentive, he was sure he could get Dettlaff close enough to grab the knife. He was hoping he’d be able to get away with pretending to stumble, but if that failed, he was willing to do something less comfortable, like feigning crying or pretending to faint.

He figured the sooner, the better, so shortly after Dettlaff had arrived for their daily conversation, he made to stand during a particularly enthralling topic and faked a stumble. Dettlaff was quick to catch him, his hands coming up under his armpits and holding him aloft. Geralt couldn’t reach far enough behind Dettlaff to grab his prize.

“Are you alright?” asked Dettlaff with genuine concern in his voice. “If Regis has been drinking from you again…”

“He hasn’t,” Geralt assured him with a lopsided smile, shifting closer, trying to get an arm around Dettlaff’s waist. “I’m well. Just tired.”

Dettlaff carefully parted their bodies. “What are you doing?”

“I, uh… I merely…” With some effort, he pushed through Dettlaff’s resistance to fling his arms around the man. Dettlaff startled, jerking within his grip.

“Geralt,” said the vampire calmly, patiently, but while pushing Geralt back again. Geralt made a futile swipe for the knife. “You are coming on rather strong. I gather this was why you were looking at me yesterday.”

Geralt’s attention jumped to Dettlaff’s face. “Pardon?”

“I do not know how humans go about courting.” Dettlaff curled a hand around Geralt's wrist and positioned Geralt's arm so it was a barrier between them. “But vampires typically announce their intentions first.”

Geralt, at a loss for what to say, merely stared at him.

“That… was what you were trying to convey, was it not?” asked Dettlaff, now appearing uncertain. “Or were you-“

“Yes,” said Geralt quickly, before Dettlaff could detect his culpability. “That is what I was doing. I apologize if I overstepped any boundaries. It won’t happen again.”

Dettlaff visibly relaxed. He leaned over Geralt, his mouth brushing the crown of Geralt’s head. His lips were cold and soft. “Any other day, I would not mind it happening. I have never bed a human and I am curious as to what it might be like.” He carefully sat Geralt down on the end of the bed and dropped his hands to Geralt’s shoulders, holding him in place. “I’ve not had a partner in quite some time, in fact; it would be a pleasant change. But as things stand, I’ve no right to initiate any such relations with you, nor accept your attempt to initiate them. It is me who should be apologizing.”

“I understand,” said Geralt, rather awkwardly.

“Thank you, Geralt,” said Dettlaff.

Geralt dropped his gaze, unable to maintain eye contact. He wasn’t a man who took pleasure in manipulating people. He was only doing what was necessary to get out of this place, but that didn’t make him feel any less bad about Dettlaff opening up to him under false pretenses.

“No touching then, I gather?” he asked, and now he was sullen for a different reason. If he couldn’t reach the knife, he’d have to come up with a new plan, and his options were very limited.

“For now,” confirmed Dettlaff.

Geralt brought his feet up onto the bed and laid back down. He’d been lying down far too much lately and his blood circulation was suffering as a consequence, but he was still playing the part of frail prisoner. Dettlaff needed to be convinced of that too if he was to try for the knife again in a completely platonic context.

“How long will Regis be?” he asked, and he found that he really was looking forward to the man’s return. After the conversation they’d just had, Geralt didn’t know how to speak to Dettlaff in a way that wasn’t awkward and stilted.

Lines cleaved themselves into Dettlaff’s forehead. He looked away. “Soon. Do you wish to be left alone? I can wait outside.”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

Dettlaff nodded and made his leave. 

He spent the next several hours in silence, flicking through the only two books he had to entertain himself with. It was a relief when Regis finally return, and blessedly, with several new books that were far more in line with Geralt’s interests. Books about monsters, wars, foreign lands, and ballads.

He peeled open one titled ‘Vampires: Facts and Myths’ and read it with amusement and interest. All the while, Regis corrected what things they had gotten wrong and praised what they had gotten right.

* * *

Several weeks had passed, and Geralt was – much to his frustration – getting used to living among the vampires. Even worse, it was a better life than he’d been leading prior to his capture. He got three square meals a day, slept in a comfortable bed, was permitted to go outside when he felt up to it, and bathed every other day. He’d only been drawn from twice since his arrival and Regis had limited himself to meager sips so to not cause any further damage to his circulation. He had _dreamed_ about this kind of life, the sort of life where he didn’t have death dogging his every footstep. It would have been easy to give up his plans of escape and stay.

But he wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , because he knew Regis would become bored of him eventually, or perhaps the Elder would change his mind, and then he would be a liability. He had to leave. He needed to get the knife, which was easier said than done, unfortunately.

Any other plans he conceived were quickly dismissed; none of them were as reliable as the first one he made. As testament to that, when he finally did try to enact one of his more reliable backup plans, just to feel less stagnant, he got as far as breaking into Regis’ chest and found that there was nothing in there that could be used to help him. Just clothes and books and household utensils with little other use outside what they were intended for. He considered breaking the chest to make use of its wood upon realizing there was nothing in it that could facilitate an escape, but he knew breaking anything in this room would create a great deal of noise, and vampires had _very_ sensitive hearing.

So where did that leave him? Well, spending time with Regis and Dettlaff, which wasn’t really that bad. They clearly looked down upon humans and would make the occasional off-putting remark, but overall, they were enjoyable conversational partners with a bounty of knowledge to share. He learned more from them about far away lands than any book he’d picked up. Some of the places they mentioned seemed unbelievable, like something out of a fairy-tale, out of fiction, and it was only because they were both very forthright individuals that Geralt believed them.

When they asked him to share, he would tell them about being a witcher. The monsters he’d hunted, how he’d hunted them, how much he’d been paid. Naturally, he never mentioned the vampires he’d exterminated, of which there were many, and he tried to keep his stories focused on the unintelligent variety of monsters. It was just as much for his comfort as for theirs, as there was no getting past they fact they were often the target of witcher’s despite their intelligence. Although witchers had never and would never succeed at killing off a higher vampire, Dettlaff mentioned at least one higher vampire had been subjected to a fate worse than death by a witcher. Geralt didn’t want to imagine what that might have been.

If not for the fact he was being kept against his will, he probably would have started to think of Regis and Dettlaff as friends. Other than Eskel, who he only ever saw while wintering these days, he’d never had friends before. It would have been nice. But that wasn’t what they were, and nor would they ever be friends. Even if he hadn’t been a prisoner, they were incompatible species; a witcher with vampire friends – a ridiculous concept.

“You could let me go,” Geralt suggested to Regis, not for the first time. The man was combing his hair. He did that an awful lot, more than Geralt ever had.

“I could,” said Regis, working a particularly stubborn tangle out with the tips of his sharp nails. “But then I’d never see you again, and I’d wonder about you, and it would bother me an awful lot.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I don’t think I could give up your taste, either. Best I’ve ever had. Must be the mutations.” He slid the comb smoothly through the now untangled section of hair he was working on. “Besides, you’re happy here, aren’t you?”

“Not particularly.”

A pause. “Why not?”

“I don’t like being kept in enclosed spaces among people I don’t know any more than you would.”

Regis resumed grooming his hair. “You humans are a great deal more complicated than I imagined. Frustratingly so, in some regards.”

“Yeah,” said Geralt dryly. “It’s almost like we’re intelligent beings with just as many thoughts and feelings as your race, if not more.”

“Point taken, little wolf.” Regis leaned his chin on the crown of Geralt’s head. “I admit, I had little knowledge of humans prior to you. Our interaction was limited to… well, I’m sure you’re aware of what it was limited to.”

“I can guess.”

“Yes, I have misjudged your kind,” said Regis.

“And what are you going to do with that information?” asked Geralt, glancing over his shoulder at Regis. “Still going to be an ass to every human you come across?”

“To every human? I didn’t even do that when I considered humans wholly inferior. Waste of my time to give everyone individual attention, even with the intention of deriding them.” Regis ran his fingers through Geralt’s hair to break any lingering knots.

“You know what I don’t understand?” Geralt only paused for a fraction of a second. “How you and Dettlaff can have such different perspectives. Didn’t seem like he ever considered humans wholly inferior.”

“He didn’t,” admitted Regis. “But he and I have lead very different lives.”

“Gather that to mean he didn’t get himself addicted to blood.”

Regis grunted in displeasure. “I did maintain sobriety for a few years, when with a beautiful woman who did not approve of my drinking.”

“And what happened?”

“I fell back into old habits, and she left.” Regis removed his hand from Geralt’s hair and sat back, letting his long legs stretch out on either side of Geralt’s body. “It depresses me to think about it, driving her away… I have not been sober for more than a week since then.”

“Really have no one to blame but yourself,” pointed out Geralt.

“I’m aware,” said Regis dully, offering no argument, nor exhibiting any offense. He slid a palm up Geralt’s back and played with the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. Geralt made no attempt to pull away. “You are the first I have found myself interested in since then, and you do not reciprocate my interest. And I understand completely why. I’m no fool, nor delusional. I’ve done nothing to earn your affections.”

Geralt folded his arms over his thighs. “No, you haven’t.” He closed his eyes as Regis’ cool palm journeyed over his shoulder, dipping toward his clavicle. “But I will not ask you to stop.” He had been alone for a very long time, longer than most. He could scarcely get women to touch him even when he had coin to persuade them. Someone voluntarily touching him was a novel experience, and he was tired of resisting, and tired of getting angry at himself for enjoying the intimacy Regis offered; it wouldn’t hurt to indulge a little. If he didn’t end up liking it, he could always tell Regis to stop, and he knew by now that Regis wouldn’t force anything. The man was a fiend, but he had his limits.

“Are you certain, little wolf?” asked Regis, dropping his mouth to the prominent bobs of Geralt’s spine. His hand delved lower, slithering beneath his arm and groping at his navel. “I had thought you had eyes only for Dettlaff.”

“Even if I have, that’s none of your business.” He shifted to enable Regis better access to his skin. “Doesn’t mean I’m not interested in this.”

“And you are not just doing this to appease me?”

“When have I ever done anything to appease you?”

Regis chuckled, his breath rolling over Geralt’s skin. “You make a valid point, little wolf. Very well.” His fingers pried open the waistband of Geralt’s trousers and slid inside. “I’ll show you just how good _I_ can make you feel.”

“I’m counting on it.”

He did indeed end up feeling good. Very good, in fact, and he sunk to the bed sheets after and let Regis cradle him to his chest, uncaring that his trousers had been pushed down to bunch around his thighs and that there was come drying on his underwear. He’d never been touched in that manner by another person before. It was better than he’d ever imagined. It was going to be hard to go back to his hand now that he knew how much more pleasurable it was with a partner.

Afterwards, he was left feeling a touch awkward about having received a hand job from Regis, but Geralt took the awkwardness of it in stride, as he did most unpleasant emotions he experienced. The person who ended up hindering his ability to go on as normal was not Regis, surprisingly, but Dettlaff, who regarded he and Regis strangely every time he spotted them together. With his sensitive sense of smell, Geralt suspected he knew what occurred between them. But if he did know, he didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t indicate he knew at all beyond the staring.

It wasn’t that long ago that Geralt had ‘admitted’ to having interest in Dettlaff, and perhaps Dettlaff thought he’d lost his opportunity for anything to come of it. While he hadn’t, it would be uncomfortable to say as much so soon after getting intimate with Regis. So he didn’t say anything at all, not even on the occasions he and Dettlaff were left alone together. He did, however, privately curse Regis for putting him in this situation.

Beyond that, little changed after their coupling. Daily life proceeded as normal. The only difference was that, on the odd occasion, when Geralt was in the mood to reciprocate, Regis would offer him intimacy. Not necessarily sexual intimacy, either; occasionally he would get massages or be embraced throughout the night, and while these things weren’t as enjoyable as sexual stimulation, he didn’t mind them in the slightest. He’d rarely received affection in Kaer Morhen, outside of what little Eskel and Vesemir was willing to extend, and he enjoyed it a great deal. After a week of regular intimacy, he almost couldn’t fathom how he’d ever gone without it.

He was getting a little complacent, he knew, but eventually an opportunity to escape would come up and he _would_ take it. In the meantime, he just… would let himself relax, enjoy the company he had. There was no need to rush when he wasn’t in mortal danger.

* * *

An escape came about rather by accident. It wasn’t he who engineered a route of escape, but Regis and Dettlaff, who came into the room one evening looking for all the world like they were about to make a serious business proposition.

They did _not_ make a business proposition of any kind, though by Dettlaff’s tone, one could have easily made that mistake.

“Geralt, Emiel and I wish to know what prompted your reciprocation, if you would kindly divulge it,” said Dettlaff, casting Regis a glance, who rolled his eyes and folded his arms. “We wish to ensure your comfort.”

“More his idea than mine,” muttered Regis. “Feel free to tell him to shove it. In fact, I encourage it.”

“Emiel,” said Dettlaff coolly. “You promised you would not be obstinate.”

“I promised that to get you to shut up for a brief period.”

“Need you do this right now? We’re trying to have a discussion.”

“A discussion! He is, as you said _repeatedly_ , my prisoner.” Regis scoffed. “If that’s the case, what’s the point of a discussion? Prisoners don’t get to partake in discussion. They’re to remain quiet and compliant.”

“I’m not trying to accuse you of-“

“You know damn well what you’re trying to accuse me of, and you know damn well you wouldn’t be having these suspicions if not for your jealousy! You know I would _never_ force myself upon another.”

Dettlaff became noticeably flustered. “I never said you forced him. However, his consent is not assured, given the situation.” He seemed to recover from his embarrassment, casting a frown at Regis. “In any case, if I am correct, what have I to be jealous of?”

“Well, you’re _not_ correct, so go _choke_ on it.”

Geralt he rose from the bed and wedged himself between Regis and Dettlaff with an abruptness that, thankfully, managed to compel silence. To ensure they wouldn’t fall back into their argument, he raised a hand to their shoulders and forced them apart. They made no effort to resist him.

“Enough of that,” he said, glancing between them. “I gather that you think I’m being forced to do something I’m not comfortable with, which I am-“ Regis looked momentarily distressed, shifting uncomfortably on the spot. “But what you’re thinking of isn’t part of that. You have no need to worry.”

Relief fell over Regis’ face. “See,” he said, turning to Dettlaff, his hands falling to his hips. “I told you. Everything he’s been doing is of his own volition.”

“Is that true?” Dettlaff pressed. “You do not feel as though you are obligated?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Dettlaff pursed his lips and looked away. “I was mistaken, then. I apologize. To both of you.”

“Don’t,” said Geralt. “Can count on one hand how many people have expressed that kind of concern for my well-being. I appreciate it.”

“You are welcome,” said Dettlaff, a touch awkward.

It didn’t evade Geralt’s notice that this situation could _easily_ be made to facilitate an escape. In fact, had he accused Regis of doing something uncouth, he suspected Dettlaff would have whisked him away without another word. But he wasn’t one to lob accusations without reason, so he held his tongue. There were more palatable plans he could enact.

“You’re confused,” said Geralt, retreating to the bed. “I imagine that has something to do with me expressing interest in you and proceeding to – favour Regis, in a manner of speaking.”

“Yes,” admitted Dettlaff. “And perhaps my doubts were somewhat motivated by jealousy.”

“Somewhat,” said Regis, scoffing.

Dettlaff hunched his shoulders. “Again, I apologize.”

Geralt raised his hands to bring about silence once more. Once Regis and Dettlaff had closed their mouths, he resumed speaking. “Fact is, I’m interested in both of you. If you want to fight that out, go right ahead, but it won’t change anything.”

Regis startled. “ _Both_ of us?”

Dettlaff didn’t appear bothered in the slightest. “That is agreeable.”

“I concur, but I…” Regis ran a hand up though his hair, grinning. “I thought you were simply tolerating me. Well, this is a nice surprise.”

“I generally don’t let people I merely tolerate put their hand down my trousers,” said Geralt flatly. By now, he had come up with a feasible plan, and while enacting it would be quite easy, well… overcoming his diffidence was something of a hurdle, seeing as it required him to entice Regis and Dettlaff into shedding a few layers. Perhaps all their layers if things got out of hand. He wasn’t sure whether or not he liked that idea.

“We differ in that regard,” said Regis with a wry smile.

“Never said I liked you, anyway,” pointed out Geralt. “I said I was interested, which encompasses more than romantic inclinations.”

“My, that’s a rather roundabout way to say you want to have sex with us,” said Regis, chuckling. “How endearing.”

Geralt opened his mouth, and then closed it, looking down at his knees. Hiding behind his hair, though he tried to be discreet about it. He certainly wasn’t opposed to sleeping with Regis and Dettlaff, even if currently claiming so was for the purpose of getting a hold of Dettlaff’s knife. He’d had a few fantasies of this nature while growing up at Kaer Morhen. Vampires hadn’t been involved in those, but older men certainly had been, as there wasn’t much else a young man growing up in such a secluded environment could fantasize about. Younger witchers had scarcely seen women and generally the women they had been exposed to hadn’t been the sort a young man would find sexually stimulating (unless they were _really_ desperate). The older students, however… well, watching them train in the yard tended to invigorate a young mind with fantasies.

Dettlaff was more along the lines of what he was attracted to, though Regis also had his merits, provided his mouth was shut – or otherwise occupied. If either of them had approached him in a bar, he probably would have taken up any kind of offer they made. Of course, Geralt couldn’t exactly be picky, being a witcher; if he turned someone down, he had to do so with the knowledge he wouldn’t be getting another offer like that in a very long time, if ever again.

“Well,” he said quietly, raising his gaze to look them in the eye. “What do you intend to do with that information?”

Dettlaff swallowed and Regis inhaled a sharp breath.

“Well…” Regis licked his lips. “I have a few ideas.”

“As do I,” said Dettlaff, hand twitching toward Geralt. “May I?” A glance at Regis. “May _we_?”

Geralt pushed himself across the bed until his back was against the wall. He let the splay of his legs be his answer.

Dettlaff was upon him first, crawling onto the mattress to draw Geralt into a kiss. It was sloppy, messy, and Dettlaff’s hands shook as they coiled into his shirt and tore at the fine material, but it was everything Geralt wanted. He returned the kiss with fervour, gliding his tongue along Dettlaff’s lips and hard palate and teeth, relishing in each point and crevice. He didn’t even mind when Dettlaff’s fangs drew pinpricks of blood, nor when Dettlaff greedily licked the blood away.

Regis observed them for a few moments before slotting himself behind Geralt and nosing into the nape of Geralt’s neck, his lips brushing each predominant bump of his spine. His long, nimble fingers slipped up into the remains of Geralt’s shirt and squeezed at the hard edge of a pec, then slid over the soft nubs of his nipples. Geralt arched his back into the touch, and at the same time, tilted his head up for Dettlaff, who had begun to kiss and lick his way down Geralt’s jaw and neck.

“You’re lucky you’ve gained the arbour of two very accommodating vampires,” murmured Regis, mouth pressed to a throbbing vein behind his ear. “Not all of us are content to share, though it is generally in our nature to do so.”

Dettlaff rumbled his agreement against Geralt’s throat, his hands dropping away from Geralt’s shirt to squeeze at Geralt’s toned thighs.

Squeezed between the two vampires, Geralt squirmed and shuddered, utterly trapped. “Definitely feel quite lucky,” he breathed, lifting his hands to fist them around handfuls of Dettlaff’s coat. He needed some leverage while Dettlaff was occupied with licking down his throat and chest and groping at warm insides of his thighs.

“You certainly are,” said Regis with a chuckle, his hands joining Dettlaff’s in exploring Geralt’s thighs. Regis came within inches of Geralt’s crotch, prompting Geralt to whine and lift his ass up off the bed, encouraging stimulation where he needed it most. His cock was already starting to strain against his trousers.

“Eager,” murmured Dettlaff, smiling against his skin. He nosed his way past Geralt’s shirt to latch onto a nipple with his teeth. Delicately, but with enough force for Geralt to feel it. A full body twitch and a groan was confirmation enough that the bite was having its intended effect.

“Oh, you like that?” Regis’ own teeth brushed the shell of Geralt's ear. “You like being bitten, Geralt?”

“Don’t tease me,” said Geralt shakily, trying and failing to put force behind his words.

“You seem to be enjoying it well enough,” murmured Regis, the pads of his fingers tracing Geralt's arousal though his trousers, eliciting a hiss of a breath from Geralt. The touch didn’t have nearly enough pressure to be satisfying. “I suppose you’d prefer it if I got around to squeezing your cock, hm? You humans are so impatient.”

“We are, and I’ll do it myself if you don’t hurry up.”

“You can try, but I have a perfectly good belt here to tie your hands with.”

When Dettlaff abandoned his nipple to instead apply a bite to the rise of a pec, Geralt grappled at his back, nails catching on the leather of his coat. “Enough,” he said unsteadily, but firmly. “I want- I want-“

“Mmm?” Regis’ thumb played on the cords of his trousers.

Geralt’s cock twitched in its confines. “I want you to fuck me already.”

Dettlaff rose abruptly, jostling the arms wrapped around him.

“Him?” he asked, his bright eyes dropping to observe Regis’ nimble fingers untying the cords keeping Geralt’s trousers shut. “Or me? You can’t have us both.”

“The hell I can’t,” growled Geralt as he pulled Dettlaff closer, brushing his lips over the faint bristles on Dettlaff’s jaw. “Don’t care how you do it. I want both of you.” He had a few ideas as to how this could be achieved, but as he was inexperienced, he was sure Regis and Dettlaff would be able to come up with something better and more feasible.

“I see your stubbornness knows no bounds,” said Dettlaff, clearly amused.

“Could have told you that myself,” said Regis. Having finally freed Geralt’s cock, he coiled a hand around it and gave it one long stroke. “Well, little wolf,” he continued, even as Geralt groaned and shifted against him, pressing the hot underside of his cock into Regis’ palm. “If anyone is going to be able to take two cocks, it’s a witcher. You have that famed endurance. Let us hope it serves you well.”

Geralt gently elbowed him. “Would you shut up and get on with it?”

“With pleasure.”

Having become accustomed to Regis’ impulses, Geralt was only moderately surprise when Regis tore into his trousers and left Dettlaff to slide the tattered remnants off his calves. He wasn’t able to restrain a flail, however, when Regis then grasped him under the thighs and pulled his knees toward his shoulders. It was a strange position to be in. Vulnerable, exposing, but Geralt was just as aroused by it as he was flustered. He grappled at Regis’ thighs as the man drew him onto them.

“My, you are flexible,” murmured Dettlaff appreciatively, his eyes roving over Geralt’s… assets.

Geralt’s ears burned. He was fortunate that his facial capillaries had been dulled, but not so lucky as to have that effect extend to his ears. With how pale his skin was, it was probably very obvious.

Dettlaff spread his hands over his thighs, dragging his fingers down to Geralt’s buttocks, squeezing the ample flesh.

“Don’t just look,” said Regis. “Get him prepared. I’ll help him relax.”

Dettlaff sighed his annoyance. “Very well.” He moved to draw a flask of oil out his coat pocket. How long had he been carrying that, Geralt wondered. He popped out the cork and spread a generous dollop over his middle and index fingers.

Regis, meanwhile, pushed Geralt’s long white hair aside with his nose to access Geralt's neck, which he gave several long, pleasurable licks. The skin his tongue touched tingled. “May I bite you, Geralt?” he asked, his voice gentle. “It will help you relax.”

“How so?” asked Geralt, struggling to drag his attention away from what Dettlaff was doing with his hands. He hadn’t yet entered Geralt, which Geralt was anticipating by trying to unclench the appropriate parts, but was instead fondling his ball sack and running a thumb up the underside of his cock, making it twitch and jump.

“A touch of venom,” explained Regis. “Not enough to incapacitate,” he added quickly. “Just enough to ensure you are relaxed. It will be necessary if we’re to do this.”

“Fine,” said Geralt impatiently. Anything to get things moving along faster. He wasn’t opposed to being bitten, anyway, with how pleasant it could feel.

Dettlaff offered him a rare, fleeting smile and kissed his lips at the same time Regis bit down on his shoulder, perhaps to distract him from the pain. He kissed back, parting his lips for Dettlaff, allowing him access to his teeth and tongue. The sting of Regis’ bite was followed by a gentle throb. His muscles began to unwind and his head swam. He relaxed in Regis’ grip, as pliant as a doll as Dettlaff broke their kiss to resume stroking his fingers down his cock and ball sack. This time, however, he descended beyond them, over his perineum and to his entrance, which he breached with a single finger. His gaze didn’t leave Geralt’s face, watching carefully for his reaction. Geralt, for his part, shifted and sighed, finding the intrusion neither pleasant nor unpleasant. He didn’t know much about sex between men, having never partake in it himself, but he imagined Dettlaff wouldn’t be putting fingers up there unless there was a pleasurable payoff.

“You make such pleasant sounds,” murmured Dettlaff as he applied more lubrication to his fingers, sliding in and out of Geralt, gently stretching him. The venom did wonders in making sure Geralt didn’t clench. He took the finger with ease, and when Dettlaff added an additional one, he took that with ease too. It was a little uncomfortable, but on the odd occasion Dettlaff would brush up against something that would make his cock swell.

“How does it feel?” asked Regis, nuzzling his prominent nose into Geralt’s hair.

“Strange,” mumbled Geralt.

“How about this?” asked Dettlaff, twisting his fingers inside Geralt in a way that made his fingers and toes reflexively curl.

Unable to respond, Geralt merely groaned.

“More effective than I expected.” Dettlaff gave another twist, drawing further sounds from Geralt. “Must be a human quality.”

“Wh- what’s…” He struggled to find the words, involuntarily pushing down on Dettlaff’s fingers. “What the hell was that?”

“If you don’t know, you’re going to have one hell of a night,” said Regis gleefully.

Geralt was a little embarrassed by his ignorance, but, to be fair, he wasn’t in the habit of sticking things up his ass. That generally wasn’t what that particular orifice was utilized for.

Dettlaff added one more finger, twisting again, and Regis had to tighten his grip on Geralt to ensure Geralt’s shuddering didn’t dislodge it. More lubrication was applied to Dettlaff’s hand, though by this point there was so much of it that it was sullying the bed sheets in great, messy patches.

“That’s it,” murmured Regis into his ear, positioning his hands up under Geralt’s knees to provide Dettlaff with greater access. “Almost ready for a cock.”

“R-ready now,” stuttered Geralt, pressing onto Dettlaff’s fingers with increasing urgency. It felt so fucking good and he was sure a cock would feel even better. 

“Patience,” rumbled Dettlaff, and Geralt could smell and see how aroused he was, his trousers noticeably tented. It was a considerable bulge. He’d already looked big while flaccid, and now Geralt was distantly wondering how he would go about fitting something of that size inside himself. He wasn’t deterred in the least, though; he wanted that cock inside him, right up to the hilt, though he was starting to understand why Dettlaff was being so thorough in his preparation.

Regis kissed the crown of his head and ear and jaw and offered whispered praise as Dettlaff prepared him. The more stimulation Dettlaff provided, the less coherent Geralt became, his mumbled replies to Regis devolving into groans and stuttered pleas for Dettlaff to go deeper, apply more pressure, _fuck him already_. When Dettlaff finally divested himself of his clothes and let his cock rest against Geralt’s entrance, Geralt was practically crying for the need of it.

It was thick and veiny, heavy against Geralt’s ass. Despite the fact it radiated cold instead of heat, it was red with arousal, the head particularly dark in colour. Dettlaff didn’t oblige his demands to be fucked right away, instead grinding against Geralt, the head of his cock catching on Geralt’s hole each time he thrust between his cheeks.

“C’mon,” Geralt whined. “Dettlaff, _please_.”

Dettlaff licked his incisors, gazing at him with hunger. “Once more, Geralt.”

“Please.”

“Good boy.”

An overwrought cry tore out of Geralt as Dettlaff pressed smoothly inside, encountering no resistance and sheathing himself fully without so much as a pause. The preparation had paid off, and Geralt was writing in Regis’ lap as a consequence, breathing hard and shivering. The pressure on his sweet spot was overwhelming. He could barely stand it, the pleasure broiling beneath his skin. And, oh, when Dettlaff started to move, the only reason he didn’t come right then and there was because of one of Regis’ hands slid away from his knee to wrap tight around the base of his cock.

“You aren’t to come until both of us are in you,” breathe Regis, clearly struggling to restrain himself, his body shaking minutely and his cock hard against Geralt’s back.

“Both of you?” asked Geralt dazedly.

“Isn’t that what you said you wanted?” asked Regis, freeing Geralt’s other leg to fumble with his clothes, practically tearing them off. He didn’t seem to care that he left gaping holes in the fine fabric. “Both of us,” he said breathlessly, with a grin. “With that witcher endurance of yours, I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Geralt was inclined to disagree; he already felt filled to capacity with Dettlaff ploughing into him, but the idea of having two cocks in him was so appealing that he had no intention of protesting unless the experience turned painful. He let Regis readjust his position until he was sitting in both their laps, his legs hanging off the side of the bed. He buried himself into Dettlaff’s shoulder while Regis positioned himself behind him.

“Is he ready, do you think?” asked Regis, sounding impatient.

Dettlaff pushed in deep, the fine hairs at his crotch scratching against Geralt’s ass. He maintained this position while Geralt’s squirmed in his arms.

The veins on Dettlaff’s cock were throbbing inside of him.

“Go on, Emiel.”

Regis coated his cock in a generous amount of oil before he bent Geralt as low as he could go and slid his cock up alongside Dettlaff’s, halting numerous times on the journey to check that Geralt wasn’t in any pain. Geralt barely managed a nod to confirm that he was coping with how hard he was panting and shaking. He was so close to spilling against Dettlaff’s chest. So close-

So close, in fact, that he did so once Regis had sheathed himself, coming with a soft cry and a fisting his hands on Dettlaff’s chest in an attempt to find some leverage. Regis reached between his legs and milked him for all he was worth, stroking him until his and Dettlaff’s stomachs were wet with his ejaculation and his head was swimming with elation. He felt so good he could have sobbed, and his eyes indeed did feel a little wet when he finished coming and dropped his sweaty forehead to Dettlaff’s chest, his hair falling over his reddened face.

Apparently his capillaries weren’t as inert as he’d thought. It just took a lot to get them working.

“You’re not to rest just yes,” said Regis. “We’ve a long night ahead of us, my dear witcher.”

Geralt had to swallow hard several times before recovering the ability to speak. “H-had no intention of resting.” He probably would have benefited from a few minutes pause, but he had no intention, nor desire of giving into the need to rest. He had two cocks inside him – _two_ – and he wanted them to move so he could feel the stretch, the pressure. Most of all, he wanted to feel Regis and Dettlaff come inside him.

“Good,” said Dettlaff. “Because I am nowhere near finished myself.”

Regis wrapped his arms around him, pinning his body in place, and began to thrust. Dettlaff followed suit, his cock sliding in and out in tandem with Regis’. They started slow, conscious of how very tight Geralt was and how easily they could injure him. Each thrust was careful and calculated. They watched and listened to Geralt closely, their hands roving over his skin and their lips whispering praise into whatever body part was closest, easing him into the sensation of being so very full. With them being so very considerate of his pleasure, it was impossible not to end up hard again.

It was only once it became apparent that Geralt had adjusted to the intrusion that they began to speed up, and Geralt became so overstimulated that he was making some of the obscenest sounds any of them had ever heard. They might as well have been killing him for how loud he cried, shamelessly letting everyone within their vicinity know how very good he felt (something he might regret later, but didn’t have the presence of mind to care about right now).

His nails tore welts into Dettlaff’s chest after a particularly vigorous thrust and he threw his head back, his spine arching, his mouth open but producing nothing, not even a whimper. The pleasure had choked him of his ability to speak. He came this time with his vision flashing white and a line of drool dripping off his chin, soaking into his disheveled hair. He was probably quite the sight, and Dettlaff must have thought so too, as his eyes were wide and rapt.

“Sublime,” Dettlaff whispered, and only needed rock into Geralt a few more times before he too came, filling Geralt with a welcoming chill.

Regis licked messily up his shoulder blade and continued to plunge into him long after Dettlaff had finished, grasping onto his forearms so he could pull him into each thrust. Dettlaff didn’t seem to mind that he was gradually sliding out of Geralt, simply holding Geralt close while Regis reaped his own reward from Geralt’s body.

“Regis,” Geralt murmured, thoughtlessly and wantonly, his cock stirring once more, if feebly.

“Say my name,” Regis demanded, speaking in a voice thick with lust. “Say it again.”

“Regis.” And then a soft, desperate, “ _Please_.”

He drove deeper, harder, frenzied in his desire. His mouth clamped over Geralt’s shoulder hard enough to draw blood and he sucked it greedily into his throat. Instead of attempting to push him off, as perhaps he should have, Geralt encouraged him to drink his fill by letting out an elongated moan and pressing into it. The sharp sting of the fangs and the pleasurable pressure in his abdomen made for a delightful blend.

While he drank, Regis’ hands raked over his stomach and chest and thighs, touching every inch of available skin, mapping it out with his fingers. When he finally reached Geralt’s half-hard cock and gave it several hard strokes, Geralt impossibly, despite his exhaustion, peaked once again and spilled what little he had left in him into Regis’ palm. It was this that sent Regis plunging over the edge, filling Geralt with the same chill Dettlaff had and biting down in an almost vice-like grip as he rode out his orgasm. The wound would undoubtedly leave a scar, and Geralt didn’t mind that at all.

With completion came exhaustion, and Regis relinquished his hold on Geralt and dropped bonelessly to the mattress. Geralt and Dettlaff soon joined him in lying down, each of them touching as much of each other as they could, their limbs tangled so greatly that it was hard to tell what belonged to who. They languished in their filthy pile. None of them had even the slightest desire to move despite the various fluids drying on their skin.

Three times, thought Geralt dazedly. He’d come three times. He hadn’t even known himself capable. It was something he would have to keep in mind for the future.

None of them spoke. They made no sound beyond breathing, and only moved to stroke each other’s hair or apply lazy kisses to whatever patch of skin was closest, regardless of who it belonged to. Geralt’s ass throbbed from the abuse it had just undergone and the bite on his shoulder ached, but neither of these were unwelcome feelings. He embraced the reminder of the pleasurable night he’d had, and for the first time in his life, he was looking forward to the scar that he would undoubtedly have when his bite healed.

When exactly their rest passed into sleep, none of them knew.

Geralt didn’t remember the purpose of his sleeping with Dettlaff and Regis until he clawed himself awake some hours later. With Dettlaff and Regis still dozing, he was able to extract himself from their limbs and take the knife from Dettlaff’s coat, storing it under the bed. His legs shook from the effort, but he persevered.

“What are you doing?” asked Dettlaff, looking blearily over at him while he was hunched on the floor. Geralt shot upright, his heart hammering.

“Cleaning up,” he offered feebly.

Dettlaff dragged himself to the edge of the mattress and pulled Geralt back into bed, wrapping his arms and legs around him and resting his chin on the crown of his head.

“Go back to sleep,” instructed Dettlaff. “You can clean in the morning.”

Tired as he was, Geralt was more than happy to comply.

* * *

It took a week for Geralt to find an opportunity to make use of the knife, by which time he had been fucked by Regis and Dettlaff twice more, received a blowjob, attempted a blowjob of his own (which Dettlaff praised despite the overuse of teeth), and discovered that he could come from a single finger provided his prostate was stimulated for long enough. They probably would have gotten more fucking done, except Geralt had been so relaxed around them recently that he ended up engaging them in philosophical debates, which often took up just as much time as the sex did, and was similarly as pleasurable. A good conversation could be just as satisfying as a romp provided someone had a good partner, and Geralt couldn’t have asked for anyone better than Dettlaff and Regis, who were both highly intelligent and had a plethora of knowledge to draw on.

They were great company, great conversation partners, and the sex was the sort of masturbation fodder he’d be able to use for the rest of his life, regardless of the longevity of witchers, but Geralt still couldn’t justify to himself remaining in Regis’ ‘care’ when he now had a route of escape (with how he now felt about the man, he couldn’t bring himself to refer to it as imprisonment anymore). He couldn’t live like this forever. Witcher’s weren’t meant to live in luxury, they weren’t meant to do nothing all day except talk, eat, read, and have sex; that sort of thing was for nobles, and besides, he was sure Dettlaff and Regis would lose interest in him eventually. Wouldn’t it be better to leave before losing them could cause him irrevocable pain? Even if Regis had offered to let him stay without the confinement angle, which he suspected the man was close to doing, he wouldn’t have taken it. He knew how this would end, how it always ended for people like him, for witchers.

So while Regis was passed out from a particularly long romp on their – _the_ bed, Geralt tiptoed across the room and carefully removed the nails from the planks of wood covering the window. By now, he knew it took a great deal to wake Regis, who had managed to sleep through Dettlaff and Geralt engaging in heavy petting right next to him despite how noisy they could get. He nevertheless removed the planks as quietly as possible, barely making a sound as he placed them gingerly on the floor.

Upon completion of his task, he stared out the window, at the surrounding wilderness and distant blue skies. At his freedom. He stared for a long time, unable to compel himself into movement. He’d gotten so used to Regis, to Dettlaff, to the comforts of this place…

“Geralt.”

He turned around and unhappily noted it was with some relief. He’d been caught.

Regis, however, didn’t rise from the bed, merely watching him as he stood at the window. He regarded Geralt sadly, his onyx eyes dull with acceptance.

“I’m sorry I kept you here,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, Geralt.”

Geralt licked his lips. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“I do. I kept you here against your will, and had I know how deeply I would come to care for you…” Regis diverted his gaze. “I should never have imposed confinement on you. I understand that you must leave.”

“Living with you wasn’t unpleasant,” said Geralt. “I’ve been happy here, with you and Dettlaff. More so than I have been out there, even.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.” Geralt ran a hand along the window frame. “But you are right. I must leave.”

“Yes,” said Regis, nodding, his head hanging between his shoulders. There was defeat in the way he held himself. “You will find your belongings on the outskirts of camp, in a chest. We have a few storage containers there. Take whatever you need.”

“Thank you.” Geralt trembled. He closed his eyes in an effort to control it. “Extend Dettlaff my goodbyes,” he said quietly, strained. “And apologize for my not being able to do it myself.”

“I will. And Geralt…”

“Yes?”

“You have made me realize I do not like the man I am. Should we meet again, I hope circumstances will be different. I hope that I will have earned the right to be in the presence one so much better than myself.”

“I’m not-“

“You are, Geralt. You are better than me. And perhaps you always will be, with my history. But you must not linger here; leave, and I wish you the best on your journey.”

Geralt nodded and lifted a leg up to the window, sliding it onto the sill. “Goodbye Regis.”

“Goodbye Geralt.”

Forest debris crunched under his feet. He stepped into the sunlight, heading for the outskirts on bare feet.

The retrieval of his swords and supplies was not accompanied by a feeling of freedom. Even as he put miles between himself and the vampire encampment, he did not feel as though he had been liberated in any way.

Regis and Dettlaff had trapped him, irrevocably, and it was an imprisonment he embraced.


End file.
